


In Late Hours

by BorkMork



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Dancing in a quiet working hour, F/M, Fluff, during New Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27546484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BorkMork/pseuds/BorkMork
Summary: Roy smiled and relaxed back into his seat. The woman’s voice drifted throughout the office, and, to his surprise, he found his adjutant idle. Her fingers hovered over the type keys, seeming to listen intently to the music.The radio’s light voice danced between them. The woman’s foreign language tickled them with a soft-spoken delight, and Roy noted the warmth in his adjutant’s eyes, at how her gaze mellowed his gut and brought a faint smile to his lips.“Cuivrean music?” she asked.-In the late hours of the night, with the New Years' just a few minutes away, Führer Roy Mustang asks his adjutant to a dance.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 8
Kudos: 67





	In Late Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [aanau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aanau/pseuds/aanau) for beta-reading this piece!

The night had overcome the office. Führer Roy Mustang, of course, had seen this coming. 

New Years was breathing down their necks. It had always been a celebrated activity ever since Amestris's founding, and no matter where one went in the country, people were always enthusiastic about it. 

Especially in Central. Always with Central.

There were party hats. Lit-up candles. Activities and festivals on the streets. People down on one knee for just a simple question. No wonder the citizens loved it — the idea of cleaning up a person’s act and creating determined goals sounded like a dream. One that seemed too good to be true from how the commitment usually fizzled out over time, but Roy loved the energy regardless.

The government wasn't hesitant to show the same spirit too. New Years was a time where people found comfort in family, laughing about goals and colleagues, and if anyone wanted to finish work then they brought their mess home with them. Roy would usually notice workers outside his window. Many had their briefcases with them, seemingly eager to dip down the headquarter steps at the prospect of home. It was always generals wanting drinks with their families. Office workers taking refuge in bar drinks and ping-pong games. It left the floor quiet, sometimes having men pop a few bottles in the lobby.

For him, he alternated.

Roy wasn’t the kind of Führer who stopped having fun after anointment. He had finished early before, just to open up bar sessions with his team, because clinking shots together and groaning over the newest drama was always fun. And he didn't want to be treated like the most important man when he just wanted to be the simplest man out of a band of idiots.

But he did find himself leaning toward all-nighters lately. His adjutant needed that more than anything.

The woman in question was situated a few feet away. Riza Hawkeye sorted the paperwork, stapled the documents, and never looked up in their quiet, working atmosphere. 

She had grown her hair out. It brushed her shoulders, a bunch of it placed into a neat bun at the back of her skull, and yet somehow, in her forties, Riza retained her youth that he himself never conjured with his salt-pepper hair. 

Their routine always came to this: silent glances, a few words here and there, a question or two, and they would slide their documents into completed trays when the signatures were done. Roy would always beg at these times for a break, but they knew to lean into the calmness, never faltering at the prospect of going home. Roy had the rights to leave the building anytime he wanted to, but he didn't want to abandon his Colonel whenever the work piled at her desk. It was cruel, especially with how much filtering flowed between him and her, so he took refuge in the quiet, sometimes peering behind him to watch the framed sky through the window panes.

Currently, he was working on a set of papers detailing the acceptance of a new economic policy. Something about better regulation of the food industry, better inspection, and code violations rather than whatever the hell they previously had. 

Roy's sullen eyes were careful to read each term. His hand grabbed the stamp, pressing a clean sigil into the top right corner.

He leaned back and exhaled in relief. The Führer office wasn’t as small as the other branches he was assigned to. Far from it, actually. The whole building had to be revised because of the coup he did years ago, and to see it expand to something more extravagant was a bigger surprise than he expected. 

He had removed the old dingy furniture, and stuck to brevity. The walls lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets — all categorized in print, in the preferred order of priority and alphabet. He had the center of the room furnished with carpet, simple comfy couches, a secret wine cabinet in the corner, and, most importantly, a comfortable desk for his adjutant. Perfect as an office could be.

Riza had been typing when Roy stood up. He walked over to her desk and placed a completed work set into her hands. All methodical, very familiar.

“It’s almost New Year, Colonel.” Roy smiled to himself, tapping the end of his pen onto her desk.

Riza didn’t look up, hands occupied with a new assignment. “Yes it is, sir.”

“Do you have plans for celebrating?”

“Not particularly. Rebecca invited me to a party but work had to be done.”

Roy frowned. He sometimes felt guilty when Riza missed opportunities. He always reminded her that she didn't need to be here all the time, encouraging her to see other people when the opportunities popped up, but he couldn’t argue when she remained stubborn. Riza always was the kind to choose her own agency rather than allow others to choose it for her. 

“Tomorrow I request for you to take a day off.”

“I’d rather not, sir.”

“There's no instance where I could benefit from you overworking yourself."

"That is true," she said. "But tonight, I plan to stay. You're too swamped, sir, the generals would hate to see slow progress on the policies."

Roy sighed. "'Treat your men as you would your own beloved sons. And they will follow you into the deepest valley.'" Quoting strategy was one way he got labeled arrogant in the office, but sometimes he found it effective. “So I insist. I'll handle the rest.”

Riza remained rooted to her seat. Her fingers had dropped from the typewriter for a second, and she was looking at him, still beautiful after years of living. “Using the same argument, we need to evaluate your own fatigue.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “You always labeled me as a slacker. Are you changing that now?”

A slight smile. The typing resumed. “You still are, sir. What changed is the increased agency nowadays. If I started you off today with a heavier workload, then we wouldn’t be working overtime.”

“Sadistic.”

“Efficient.”

Roy groaned, brushing back his bangs. The hair gel had begun to worn off, which wasn’t a good sign. He cussed to himself. He should’ve brought his essentials today.

“Something the matter, sir?”

Roy returned to his desk, resuming work. “I forgot my styling gel. It’s going to be unkempt again.”

“No one is privy to see you except me. You'll be fine.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to look like this tonight. Without the gel I look like a child.”

The amusement in her voice was noticeable, too noticeable even for her. “You’ll be fine. Previous Führers had worse appearances.”

Roy squinted. She still didn’t look up from her desk. “That’s not reassuring, Hawkeye.”

“Oops. My bad.” Still didn’t look up.

Roy, after a moment of silence, eased back into the office’s hushed atmosphere. The radio on his desk had been humming out violins throughout the entire hour, but his fingers fiddled with the node, the music fizzling with each careful twist.

_Hello Amestris, we have ten minutes before the New Year!_

Click.

_We’re going to be talking to a special guest on the—_

Click.

_With the poll, the results tell us that the top New Year resolution is—_

Click.

_Quand il me prend dans ses bras_

_Il me parle tout bas_

_Je vois la vie en rose_

Roy smiled and relaxed back into his seat. The woman’s voice drifted throughout the office, and, to his surprise, he found his adjutant idle. Her fingers hovered over the type keys, seeming to listen intently to the music. 

The radio’s light voice danced between them. The woman’s foreign language tickled them with a soft-spoken delight, and Roy noted the warmth in his adjutant’s eyes, at how her gaze mellowed his gut and brought a faint smile to his lips.

“Cuivrean music?” she asked.

A nod, then a lean into his chair. “Correct. The song’s popular for its use in festivities like this.”

“That’s a surprise, actually. I’ve never heard of this before.”

“It’s a native Cuivre song. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Communications Deal played a part in its popularity, there’s always new music nowadays. It’s not like the old days where it was just Amestrian orchestra or cabaret.”

“Clearly.” Riza sighed. She kept working on the documents, but her eyes were locked on his. No one was here to see the ease on her face, which was a shame too. 

She looked amazing when relaxed. 

“But that’s a sign of progression," she said finally. "We wouldn’t want the people to be stripped of change now, would we?”

“You’re right.”

_Il me dit des mots d'amour_

_Des mots de tous les jours_

_Et ça m'fait quelque chose_

He hummed. The music lulled the tediousness and left him lighter in the chest. There was something nice and sweet of the singer’s words, as if she herself knew of the situation, and decided to push him — encourage him — with each new lyric. “It’s talking about love language, Hawkeye.”

“Is that so?”

Roy nodded, humming softly to himself. “ _Des mots de tous les jours._ You can interpret it as strong communication. One where normal speech hides a thousand words and phrases, and only you and the person you love could listen in and appreciate it for what it is.” He chuckled. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? A bit corny for me to say, but well...”

Riza glanced at the radio again. An inflection changed in her gaze, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “You’re getting better at Cuivrean, sir.”

“I’m the Führer. Learning the language is mandatory.”

“That policy isn’t official, sir. We have translators,” she corrected, but the smile on her seemed to grow, teasing-like. “But it’s sweet of you to consider such factors.”

Roy smiled too. He liked it when she acknowledged his hard work. It felt selfish sometimes to ask for it, but knowing that the praise came from her made it the ultimate compliment. “I’d be a horrible leader if I didn’t consider respecting other cultures.”

Riza chuckled, moving a completed paper to another file. “That is true, then I’ll have to pull the trigger.”

“And we won't want that now, do we?”

Both of them laughed silently. The lights had been dimmed, but Roy could see her relaxed face regardless, and he was pleased to see Riza's fingers typing, lightly tapping to the song’s violins. 

He surprised himself when he pushed his chair back, standing up. His feet strode over to her, heels softly tapping against the carpeted floor, watching how her body eased with each closing pace.

_Il est entré dans mon coeur_

_Une part de bonheur_

_Dont je connais la cause_

He raised a hand to her, palm out. “Colonel Riza Hawkeye. Do I, Führer Roy Mustang, have permission to dance with you on this boring night?”

Roy heard the stifled snort.

“The night wouldn’t be boring if you finished your paperwork,” she said, resting her cheek on her palm.

“We deal with enough paperwork already,” he scoffed, pouting at her. His expression quickly melted to a smirk. “I didn’t hear a no.”

Her chuckle made him smile more. She moved her chair back. “Be warned, I don’t know how to dance.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

Riza grabbed his hand. Her grip was tight, and Roy pulled her toward him, drawing her to the center of the office. There wasn’t anyone to see them, at how he turned off the ceiling lights completely and watched the moonlight spill onto the floor.

There were careful steps. Hesitant strides on the carpet. Riza held him and Roy held her back, hands entwined in the dark as they made their way through the room, following the lyrics of the Cuivrean woman.

_C'est lui pour moi_

_Moi pour lui_

Roy focused on the warmth. He allowed it to glide from his fingertips to the brunt of his chest, and imagined his feet forming flames at each step — controlled and tempered, blazing and smooth. With each turn, their breaths mingled. Riza’s eyes fluttered closed for a second, and Roy took care to rock their bodies together.

Few times she stepped on his toes, apologies mumbled out of her lips, but he knew she was directing this dance now, guiding them in slow circles through the office without a word spoken. He almost tripped at one point from a snag in the carpet. His hair loosened more, framing his frantic eyes while Riza stared down at him, his waist caught in her saving dip. 

His colonel laughed lightly, pressing her face to his chest when she pulled him back up. 

It was the moment he found himself swooning. A fifty-year-old man, with lengthy crow’s feet and a decent mustache, known to many as a war criminal and a hero, wanted to swoon because of her. The woman with silver wisps in her golden hair, the auburn-blazing gaze. The one who adapted quickly like this was her calling from long ago. Her name was Riza Hawkeye. His adjutant, his companion, his queen.

And when the fireworks colored the floor with reds, pinks, and magentas, their conjoined shadows remained solid, fluid. 

They kept to their silent dance. The song had been finished ages ago, a new one replacing it, but a foreign tune had remained in Roy’s throat. He hummed along, adapting to their steps amid the muffled celebrations from the streets. 

Her fingers found their way to his unkempt hair, brushing them behind his ears. Her face looked young when her lips moved. She mouthed the words: “I love you”.

Roy dipped her to the floor, both smiling at how their rainbow-colored noses brushed together.

Silently, he told her the same.

For in other words, in other languages, their dance said of one solitary thing. That the world was theirs. For just a fleeting second.


End file.
